


Falling and Flying (a WW2 Flyers AU)

by yummysubculture



Series: NHL WW2 AU [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: AU, M/M, Philadelphia Flyers, WW2, massive re-edit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-21
Updated: 2011-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 23:02:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/218041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yummysubculture/pseuds/yummysubculture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Normandy invasion, the remains of a company of the 1st Canadian Paratroops, separated and alone, tries to meet up with the rest of the brigade in Holland.</p><p>(This was the first piece of fanfiction I'd ever written and I wanted to clean it up and make it a bit more readable and less full of pointless line-breaks and giant blocks of French, thus the repost.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go ahead and assume Danny and Claude are always speaking French to each other even though I only used a few French words for flavor.
> 
> Also sorry for the few paragraph formatting things I couldn't get to align right no matter what I did.
> 
> The second chapter will be historical notes.

**January 25th, 1945**

 

By the third week wandering lost through Belgium, they were all caught up in their own distractions— huddled in the same foxholes, marching the same snowy roads, facing the same horrors— but worlds apart.

They all had their jobs to do, and Sergeant Pronger felt it was somehow his duty to watch over each of them, at least to bear witness if not to hold them together. The Captain and Lieutenant Carter had to get them to Holland somehow, Hartnell had to make sure they had enough supplies and a place to sleep, Carcillo had to manage their remaining weaponry. Even the two stranded Americans they'd picked up in the Ardennes had a part to play— Doc Boucher was the closest thing they had now to a company medic and van Riemsdyk was only a few days away, he swore, from repairing their radio well enough to make contact.

It fell to the Sergeant then, Pronger figured, to keep this pack of strays from falling apart. After all, if they were ever going to make it to the rendezvous point with less than a dozen men, leftover rations, a single jeep and no radio contact, the ability to stick together was the most important thing they had.  Every night, when they gathered around a single fire— if they could find somewhere safe enough to light one— he'd make sure to look at each of them. Even if he was bone tired and tempted to just close himself off, he tried his best to really see how each man was holding up.

Tonight, as usual, Carter, Richards, Hartnell and a bottle were gathered around the company’s maps and charts. All the officers, himself and Corporal Hartnell included, were hitting the drink a bit harder than they probably should—this time with strong Belgian cider they'd liberated from a cellar a few towns back. He didn't blame them, hell, he'd consumed more than his fair share, but Richie seemed to be incapable of sleeping while sober and Carter had reached a stage of permanent near-drunkenness. He reassured himself with the thought that they'd probably run afoul of some Germans, or worse, run out of booze, long before it had a chance to become a problem.

Carcillo was disassembling and reassembling a rifle, his tongue poking out between his missing front teeth in concentration. He'd been a loose cannon since before they left the RAF training camp— sometimes angry and violent, sometimes happy-go-lucky, his sanity not particularly aided by his crazed, toothless appearance, the fault of a accident during a training drop. He seemed calmer now, almost worn down, his concentration channeled into his weapon.

Van Riemsdyk and Private Carle were taking the radio apart for the millionth time. One of these days they were going to get frustrated and destroy it beyond repair, but for now they seemed to be making progress. They’d managed to rig it to receive transmissions from Canadian HQ, and had learned that the rest of the 1st Parachute Brigade was in Holland preparing for their next operation, but they’d not yet heard anything about van Riemsdyk and Boucher’s unit.

Doc Boucher was talking animatedly with Bob the Russian. They’d pulled him out of the wreckage of a spy plane in a Belgian field—the poor boy was terrified, of the plane, of them, of everything it seemed— but once they’d patched him up and gotten some food into him, he’d proven to be a good kid, if not too great a pilot, bright, energetic and a quick study with English. Boucher was training him as a field medic, hoping, Pronger guessed, that he’d take over as company medic when the Americans were reunited with their countrymen.

Brière and Giroux were huddled off to the side speaking French, their voices low and private. At first it had bothered him, bothered all of them really, that the two were always talking in French, like some kind of secret code. PFC Brière had started out in a Quebecois regiment back at the beginning of the War, the famous Van Doos, but had transferred to their company to be a paratrooper. The younger, Ontarois private had been conscripted and was clearly uncomfortable in an Anglophone unit, and had stuck to the other French-speaker like a tall ginger shadow for the entirety of their first operation. He’d come into his own now, speaking English most of the time, especially with Bob, but he and Brière were still very close. Awfully close, actually. It was probably a French thing.

Sgt. Pronger sat by the fire like this night after night, cleaning one of his trophy Nazi revolvers and subtly evaluating the ragged remains of his company. They weren’t the same men they’d been when they shipped out from Ringway, but they were alright. They’d live to fly again.

 

 

***** 

**January 30th, 1945**

 

They had the good fortune of finding an abandoned farmhouse on the outskirts of a small Belgian town.  It looked as though its former occupants had abandoned it in a hurry— all the valuables were gone, but the animals had been left in the yard to starve.  Giroux had insisted they bury them— the young private's eyes going soft at the sight of their rotting bodies, soft in a way that they hadn't gone at the sight of human corpses since they'd left France— and Bob agreed to help.  The rest of the men busied themselves scouting out the area and moving their meager equipment into the little barn. 

Danny paused with his load, resting it on a low stone fence as he watched his friend digging a grave for an emaciated cow.  Both he and the Russian had stripped off their tunics, in spite of the cold, and their undershirts were dark with sweat and snowy mud.  He could see Claude speaking softly, teaching Bob the English words for sadness and death and all the things they’d seen so much of, but never spoke about. 

 “C’mon, Brière! Shift it! _Allez_!” someone yelled, probably Carter, and he shouldered his crate and turned back towards the barn.

That night, they all bunked down inside the house and barn, setting up their kit on every available bed-like surface.  Carter and Richie took the bedroom, sharing the farmer’s bed in spite of their men’s ribbing, knowing it was worth it to sleep on a real mattress.  Hartnell took the small sofa, and Pronger’s huge frame sprawled over both of the children’s beds pushed together. 

 The rest of the men bunked down in the barn and spent the latter part of the evening making beds out of haybales and spare linens from the house.  Of course, after they found the farmer's wine barrels it all devolved into a drunken hay fight, sneezing and cursing and laughing.  It wasn’t long before Bob collapsed, exhausted, into one of their makeshift beds, snoring loudly, and the Americans soon followed.

Claude, Danny noticed, had been out of sorts since they’d arrived at the farm.  The wine hadn’t particularly help, nor had the roughhousing.  He sat slumped in a pile of dirty chair cushions, bits of hay poking out of his curly hair.  He looked like a tired child, Danny thought—like the children they’d seen in Normandy— lonely and hungry and lost.  Claude had had a soft spot for the little ones, giving them rations and singing them little songs in French, wiping away their tears with his mother’s handkerchief that he’d carried with him from Ontario.  Now he was the one hungry and tired, the handkerchief lost in the chaos of the last few weeks, all alone without a comforting touch. 

Well, Danny thought hazily, that part, at least, was something he could fix.

“ _Vas-y mon p’tit._ ”

“ _Quoi_? Danny…”

“C'mon, let's get somewhere more comfortable _._ ”

“Mmm, but I was...”

“ _Leve-toi,_ Claude. _On-y-va_.”

Once they’d gotten up into the barn’s tiny loft, he let Claude collapse again, this time flopping down next to him and wrapping his arms around him.  “Danny?” he mumbled sleepily, but Danny simply shuffled closer and tucked Claude’s heavy head under his chin.

Barely audible in the dusty air already full of drunken snores, Danny began to sing.

 

 

***** 

**February 5th, 1945**

 

As much as they would have loved to hole up in the little stone farmhouse and lick their wounds for a few days, van Riemsdyk’s radio had picked up transmissions that made it sound like most of the Battalion had already made it to Holland.  If they didn’t get a move on, they would be left behind again.  They were presumed dead—no one would be waiting for them.  By Carter’s estimations, they were about a week’s hard march from the rendezvous point, and, judging by the intercepted communications, they’d be cutting it pretty close at that.

Shortly after dawn on the morning after finding the farm, they packed up their equipment once more and headed back out.  Most of them were pretty hungover and kept trying to sneak rides in the back of the jeep, snagging a few minutes’ reprieve before their equally hungover comrades noticed and pulled them, protesting, back out into the snow so they could have a turn.

They continued on like that for a few days, camping in ditches that were close enough to the road to be accessible, but far enough away to provide cover.  Most of the area had already been swept through by both German and Allied forces on their way to places of greater strategic importance, so the only reminders of the dangers they had faced in Normandy were the ruins of farms and walls, the occasional scattering of corpses and the remains of an abandoned German artillery outpost, the barrels of its guns twisted and charred.

They didn’t see anyone—friendly, enemy or civilian—until the third day after leaving the farm.  The last of the wine and cider was gone by then, as well as the last of the gasoline for the jeep.  They left its now useless bulk by the side of the road, full of empty bottles.  As night fell, Bob spotted light through the woods and smoke from a small fire.  After a quick argument, Richards decided that the signs of life were too obvious to be from a military group, assuming that soldiers would be smart enough to try to cover their tracks.  He sent Carter, Carcillo, Carle and Bob to investigate.  They quickly reported back that the fires were from a small village about a quarter mile off the main road.  They’d seen no sign of military presence, only a few farmers and their scared children.  Maybe, Carter suggested, they had some wine they would give them in exchange for medical assistance.

When they reached the center of the tiny town, there was no one in sight.

“What the fuck?” Carcillo swore, “they were here just a minute ago.  Even the fires are gone!”

“Carter, Carle, Riemer, Brière— check the perimeter. Pronger, Carcillo, Giroux, Doc—start looking in the buildings.  Don’t be stupid, we don’t know who’s here, but don’t go scaring any little kids either. Bob, Hartnell—you’re with me.  We’ll take this road further down and see how big this place is.  Meet back here.”  Richards unslung his rifle and headed across the town’s square, his face grim. 

The first few houses were empty.  It was starting to look like they they’d all be that way and Carcillo was getting impatient, slamming doors and kicking broken furniture.  He’d just slammed the back door of a quaint half-timbered house at the eastern corner of the square hard enough that it nearly came off its hinges.  Pronger was just starting to really lay into him—also discouraged by the disconcerting emptiness, when Boucher started hissing at them to be quiet.

“I hear something—a creak and some whispering. Shut up!”

There was silence.

“Who the fuck is there?! Come out or I’ll blow up the whole damn building!” Carcillo yelled, jumpy and ready for a fight.

 Silence.

 “ _Qui est là_?”  Claude tried, in a much gentler tone, scowling at Carcillo, who was trying to point his gun in every corner at once.  “We're Canadians, we're your friends.  We have a doctor if you need one.  Please come out _._ ”

A small trap door in the floor opened just an inch and a thin voice hissed—“ _les Allemands! A l’ouest—  pres de l’eglise. Vous etez en danger!_ ”

The door slammed shut.

To the west, by the church… the direction the perimeter party was headed.

“Shit! Germans to the west! Carter’s group is heading right towards them!”

*****

As soon as they’d left the village and headed into the woods through a gate behind the town’s church, something seemed off.  Things were too quiet, and the smell of gunpowder hung heavy in the air.  It wasn't long before the sound of snapping twigs rang through the trees, followed by the faint whoosh of something being thrown.

“GRENADE!” Carter bellowed, diving into Carle to get him out of the way.  Danny and van Riemsdyk, a bit behind the other two, took cover behind one of the low stone walls crisscrossing the forest floor.

The explosion was loud, too loud to their ears after so long away from battle. 

Carle had cleared the radius of the blast, but Carter hadn’t been so fortunate—his left foot and leg were bloody, the fabric of his trousers charred and shredded.  Everything else exploded into action as three German soldiers jumped from behind one of the walls, guns blazing.  Riemer caught two of them with quick pistol shots, ducking low to the ground and firing up.  Danny caught the third at close range as he tried to take in what had happened to his comrades.

Wiping the German’s blood from his face, he ran to his fallen lieutenant, dropping to the ground at his side, trying to remember what Doc Boosh would do, or Biron, the company’s original medic.  They had to get back to the rest of the group.  Shit.  Were they surrounded?  No way it was just those three.  Danny did his best to put pressure on the right part of Carter’s leg to stop the bleeding, while Carter tried his hardest not to scream.  Carle and Riemer were checking behind the other walls, looking for more enemy soldiers.

The young German soldier Danny had killed was lying with his face towards them, his grey eyes wide and lifeless.  Danny couldn’t tear his own eyes away.

*****

 Richards, Hartnell and Bob hadn’t seen a blessed thing.  Not even a stray cat or a sign of fighting.

 They did, however, find a tavern with a fully stocked cellar.

*****

Claude took off towards the town square.  He was most of the way across when they heard the explosion.

Within minutes, he’d crossed the churchyard and vaulted over the low wall at the far end, taking off into the woods.  By the time he gotten to the clearing, the fight had ended—Carle and Riemer had just come up empty handed in their search for more enemy combatants and Danny and Lt. Carter were on the snow in a pool of blood.  He rushed to Danny’s side, grabbing his face and turning him roughly towards him, examining him for damage.

“Claude! What the hell? Let go— I’m fine. _J’n’suis pas blessé._   But Carter, his leg… Boosh!”  Boucher, Pronger and Carcillo had just caught up.  “ _Dieu merci_ , he needs help.  His leg…”

Boucher knelt at Carter’s side, tearing off what was left of his pants and ripping open a packet of sulfa powder. 

“Get Richie and the rest of the men,” he told Claude, sensing his nervous energy, “get them to meet us here.  Riemer gave the all clear, but it’s best if we’re all together.”

Looking to the lieutenant for confirmation, which he received in the form of a curt nod, he bolted back towards the meeting point, ducking under tree branches and dodging walls as he went.

*****

It took about an hour for the whole group to reconvene in the woods.  By then, Boucher had Carter as stitched and wrapped and bandaged as he was going to be able to manage, and Carle and Danny were helping him try to limp around the clearing.  He needed rest, but it was more important that they keep pace and try to make it to HQ before an infection set in.  They’d take turns carrying him if they had to.

A final sweep of the area had uncovered a small cache of German supplies, enough for two or three men.  It looked as though they had been ambushed by a group of stragglers not unlike themselves.  They took what they could carry— better blankets for Bob and the Americans, a new helmet for Carle, some charting equipment and a few medical supplies.  Claude tried on all three dead men’s shoes— desperate to replace his own boots, cracked and leaking from freezing and thawing too many times— but they were all too small.

Once they had their new finds stowed in their packs—along with the booze they’d picked up at the tavern—they quickly got back on the road, not wanting to go back to town, in case there were more Germans.   They marched longer into the night than usual, not stopping until Carter was in too much pain to continue. Then they all slumped to the ground in a little copse off the side of the road to break out their newly liberated liquor.

 

 

*****

It was late when they stopped that night, the new moon barely reflecting off the snow.  They didn’t light a fire, instead burrowing into the dirt of the copse, huddled together with their new German blankets and bottles of Belgian cider.  The stuff they’d gotten from the village tavern was fancier than their old supply.  Not as strong as the homebrew, but with a fuller warmth.  That was primarily what they needed now, anyway.

They’d rigged up a tent for Carter from oil cloth and pine branches, staked into the small hill on one side and stretching down with just enough room for the injured officer to lie comfortably and for Boucher to tend to him, if he kept pretty low to the ground. 

Carter and Boucher would get extra rounds of cider, Richards decided.  Carter to numb the pain and Boucher to keep warm as he drifted among the clusters of men—seeing to Carter’s leg first and foremost, but also checking up on Bob’s cracked ribs, bandaging Claude’s abused feet, and examining Hartnell, who’d developed a nasty hacking cough.  Soon after he finished with Claude— who’d insisted he was fine and that Boosh was only imagining the limp, refusing to let himself be treated until Danny pinned him to the ground and tore off his boots— he stopped to sleep for awhile in his own burrow with van Riemsdyk. 

Claude had hissed something awful as Danny roughly tugged the cracked leather from his feet, re-opening a few nasty looking sores.  Boucher really wished they’d all stop trying to tough out every little injury.  It was the little things that were treatable, for godsakes!  There was shit all he could do for Carter without a hospital, but he could easily make things a bit less painful for Giroux with some careful cleaning and some bandages. 

He dug in, elbowing van Riemsdyk for a corner of his blanket.  He’d check on Hartnell again once the cold woke him in an hour or two.

***** 

After the medic had finished with him, Claude couldn’t deny that he felt a bit better.  His feet were a throbbing mass of pain, but that hopeful kind of pain when you know it has to get worse to get better, not the persistent, rotting ache he’d been plagued with for the last few days.

Danny tried to fix him with a glare, but Claude refused to meet his eyes.

“ _Si stupide, toi_ ” he began, but trailed off with a sigh.

“I’m fine.” Claude assured him, finally matching his gaze, “but you… are you alright?  You’ve been off since… well… did you get hurt in the blast?”

“ _Non_ …”

“Then tell me what’s wrong.  If I don’t get to hide my shit, neither do you, Brière.”

“It’s just… I killed a man earlier, in the clearing.  I don’t regret it— he’d almost killed the Lieutenant and he was aiming for Riemer and I just… He was lying there with his eyes open.  Staring at me.  God, I’ve probably shot a dozen Germans, but this one was just staring at me, like I should pity him, lost and alone like we are.  But I didn’t.”  He curled slightly in on himself, wrapping his arms around his helmet in his lap.

“I’m glad I killed him.”

Claude scooted closer.  He knew the feeling, not knowing how to justify basic morality with the expectation of killing and the contentment felt at a job well done.  That’s not how taking another life should feel.  He tucked Danny against his side, rubbing little circles into his shoulder with his thumb.  He pretended not to notice the warmth, suffusing through his body—more than just shared body heat.  He pretended not to notice the way Danny shivered and leaned into the touch.  He would pretend not to notice when, finally, limp from exhaustion and half hidden in Claude’s tunic, Danny began to cry. 

 

 

*****

**February 20th, 1945**

 

At long last, they made it to Holland.  They were tired, bloody and reeking of cider—but they had made it.

They crested the final hill into Airborne HQ, a mass of jeeps and lean-tos sprawling across what had probably once been a sleepy coastal village.  As the familiar berets of the LFC came into view, Carcillo let out a whoop.  Those among them who could ran the rest of the way into the encampment.  Giroux, Brière, Carter and Pronger brought up the rear—Danny lending a shoulder to a barefoot, limping Claude, whose boots had finally given out, and Carter, whose injury had been getting steadily worse despite Bob and Doc Boosh’s attentions, riding on his Sergeant’s back.

“Hi ho, Silver!” he bellowed, whipping the arm that wasn’t wrapped around Pronger’s neck wildly in the air like a cowboy.

The men of the 1st Canadian Parachute division stared at the rag-tag band, either the Lieutenant’s behavior or the sight of the company they’d all presumed dead or captured leaving them gob-smacked.

“Well, go on!” yelled the base commander, “get those men to the barracks! They need food and medical care.”

He turned to Capt. Richards, shaking his head in disbelief as he shook the captain’s hand.

“Welcome back, son.  Looks like you took the long route.”

*****

They had made it to HQ just in time—the whole airborne force, Canadian, American and British, was shipping out to England to train for their next big drop.  They were going into Germany itself this time by crossing the Rhine.  The higher-ups were calling it “Operation Varsity”, but among the men it was known as Kicking Jerry’s Ass. 

 This was going to be huge, bigger than Normandy, maybe.  The buzz of nervous excitement was everywhere.  At the makeshift Dutch airfield, they said goodbye to Boucher and van Riemsdyk, who were finally re-joining the US forces.  Bob would be coming with the Canadians.  They had no way to contact the Russian Air Force, and at this point, he was a far better medic than he ever was a pilot.  At the RAF base, when the proper officials were available, he would officially become Private Sergei Bobrovski, Canadian paratrooper.  After the war, he said, he would make his way back to Russia and to what was left of his home and family, but for now he had a duty to this family and he would see it through.

Once they landed in England, they would begin intensive training for the next drop.  They’d already triumphed over fate, winter and a few Germans, but the war wasn’t over yet.

 

 

*****

**March 23rd, 1945**

 

England was so green.

Not that there hadn’t been trees and grass in Holland, but away from the blood and mud and snow of the front, the fields around base were almost blindingly verdant.   It was also hopelessly soggy, as it was, after all, spring in Great Britain, but it was a pleasant clean sort of dampness after the freezing dank of winter, and at first all the men spent a good deal of their free time outdoors.  As it got closer to drop day and training sessions became longer and more intense, many abandoned the rolling hills for the warmth and dryness of the base and the local village pubs, but not Claude and, by extension, not Danny.

“It’s like home,” Claude said in the hush of the evening, the night before Operation Varsity was set to commence, “it’s like my parents’ farm, it’s green and cool and goes on forever.  I almost feel like I’m back there, only this time you’re with me.” 

He turned and smiled at Danny shyly, and something twisted deep in Danny’s chest.

“When all this is over, when we get back, I want you to see it.  You should come to Ontario, maybe for the summer.  Bring your kids.  We can go for walks just like this.”

“Aren’t you going to be sick of me by then?”

For a moment, he thought that Claude looked almost sad, his eyes dark in the fading light.  Claude himself must have realized his behavior was odd, because he quickly grinned, shoving his hands in his pockets, and said “you wish, _vieux_.”

They came to the crest of the tallest hill and settled under the spreading oak tree that they used as a visual target in drop practice.  Claude threw down his beret and began to unlace his boots in quick tugs, like an impatient child.  Danny sat down at his side, nudging him over a bit so he could settle comfortably between the tree’s roots.  When Claude had rid himself of the boots and enough other bits of uniform to be really relaxed, he slumped back against the tree, curling ever so slightly into Danny’s warmth.

“If you were cold, you should have left your tunic on…”

Danny started, but stopped abruptly as Claude laid a hand on his upper thigh.  He could feel the heat radiating out of it and all through his entire body.  Claude wasn’t cold, he was just being… confusing.

“Claude…” he whispered, “ _qu’est-ce que tu fais?_ It's like you... like you want...” his voice was trembling a bit and he stopped, hoping Claude hadn’t heard, but he did, moving his hand away suddenly.

 

“ _Désolé._ I didn’t mean…” Claude stumbled over the words as if he wasn’t sure which language to speak them in, his face burning and his eyes averted.  Even ashamed and cold in the evening damp Danny though he looked like sunshine.  They’d seen the sun so little since they deployed and he just can’t get enough.

He can’t get enough, he realized.  Grabbing the hand that had been on his leg, now hanging awkwardly at Claude’s side, he brought it slowly to his lips. 

 “ _D’accord_ , Claude. I think I want it too _._ ”

“You want it? What? What do you want?”

 Claude sounded incredulous and Danny kissed the center of his palm, just to watch his face heat up again.

 “ _Toi._ I want to be with you _.  Maintenant, au Canada, pour toujours_ …”

 Forever.  He’d said too much. 

 To his surprise, Claude didn’t back away this time, but leant in, brushing his lips to Danny’s.

 “ _Ouais_ ” he whispered breathlessly into Danny’s mouth, “ _Pour toujours_ ”

 As soon as Danny really began to reciprocate, he found himself pressed back against the tree trunk, Claude straddling his lap.  What if someone saw? They were in the middle of a field and… “No one can see us here.  _Nous sommes entièrement seuls._ ” Claude smiled almost predatorily, reading Danny’s worried look.

“ _Pas entièrement_ … there are… squirrels” he finished lamely, having trouble coming up with a reason not to just give in to the desire to make love to him right there on the grass.  When Claude threw back his head and laughed, his hair catching the last remnants of the sunset, he ran out of reasons all together.  Bracing one hand against the tree trunk, Danny tilted forward, dumping Claude onto the grass and settling his body over the younger man’s, his other hand wound into his fiery curls. 

“ _Tu es toujours comme le soliel_ …” he began.

“ _Comme la lune, toi_ ”, Claude countered, stroking Danny’s cheek.

 “… _si chaud_ ”

 “… _si belle_ ”

 “ _Belle?_ I’m not a girl.” Danny complained.

 “ _Je le bien sais_ ”

 As if to prove this, he rolled his hips up into Danny’s, feeling the hardness there and answering it with his own.  Danny soon found himself moaning like a whore, too caught up in sweat and sunlight to give a damn about privacy.  Let the squirrels see for all I care, he thought desperately, grinding down against Claude’s leg.

*****

Long after the sun had set, they lay sated on the grass, the dampness of the earth seeping into their clothes and cooling them down.  Danny rolled off of Claude with a grunt, settling in beside him and doing his best to wrap as much of himself as he could around his taller lover.  He was peripherally aware that they needed to head back to the barracks soon.  They were probably already missed if no one had covered for them.  They couldn’t fall asleep out here.

As he drifted in and out of consciousness, he could hear Claude whispering up at him.   “…and when we get back to Canada, you could move in with me.  The farm would prosper again with both of us and your boys to work it.  You always said you’d wished they could grow up in the country.  I know they don’t have a mother anymore, but for what it’s worth they could have me.  And in the summer, when they’re asleep—no one sleeps as deeply as boys on a farm—we could lay out on the hill just like this and…”

Danny closed his eyes and sighed.  They would have to go back to the barracks before dawn, but for now, he was content to sleep.

 

 

*****

In the split second between waking up and opening his eyes, Danny thought he was still in Belgium—the way the sunlight knifed through his closed eyelids, the persistent draft, the smell of stale sweat and the tickle of Claude’ s curls against his neck— all the sensations of a morning in an Ardennes foxhole.  When he did open his eyes, however, he was in the barracks at the RAF base.  In Claude’s cot, he realized suddenly.

He quickly disentangled himself from his bed partner and padded across the room to his own cot. It looked like they’d gotten lucky and no one had noticed. This was what Danny meant when he’d said it would be more dangerous for them now that they were back with the brigade—how could they have been so stupid?  Sleeping in the same bed? In a company barracks  Sure, plenty of men had curled up together for warmth out on the front, but to keep it up in the civilized safety of an RAF base? To admit that it was not out of practicality and survival but out of comfort… out of love? Not done.

_Merde_.

He was so distracted by this breach of discretion that it took awhile to remember why he was in Claude’ s bed in the first place, and to remember what day it was.  The 24th. Drop day.  After finally making it to relative safety in Holland, they’d be jumping right back into the shitstorm—into the Reich itself. He suddenly felt as if he had run half a race only to realize, sore and exhausted, that he still had an immense distance to travel.  They had made it this far, against all odds, but what did it matter now? What difference did their survival make when tonight they could be killed before they even hit the ground?

Memories of last night continued to hit Danny in waves, returning one by one with bruising force— how Claude had sought him out and how their routine of comfort had turned into something else entirely, passionate and desperate. He remembered wrapping his body around Claude’s in the spring-damp grass, letting his soft words wash over him and wishing they never had to move again.  But he also remembered his duty. His nation. His mission.

He would move—in all the precise and practiced motions they’d perfected on base—like deadly clockwork. Looking over at where Claude still slept, curled protectively around the empty space where Danny had been, he swung his legs out of bed and reached for his boots—he would move.

He would fly and fall and fight like hell, for Canada and Claude and the future.

 

 

*****

**March 24, 1945** (One possible outcome)

 

Danny could barely see his own hands in front of his face.  Why was it so dark so early in the day?

They’d been on the ground for about an hour before the fighting had really begun, having dropped into the very edge of their target zone. By the time they’d reached the front lines, however, they’d been plunged into chaos. It wasn’t as bad as the Bulge, he thought within the corner of his mind, but still… there was blood on his face and neck, sticky and pungent, that probably wasn’t his.

He could hear Captain Richards yelling orders above the sounds of gunfire and the moans of the injured, but for the life of him, he couldn’t understand what he was saying. It was like his brain, in some attempt to enhance his focus on survival, had entirely forgotten the English language. It wasn’t until he heard the piercing scream—the piercing, very French scream—that he began to run.

Claude.

The scream had come from several meters to the East, he thought, taking off towards a stand of trees, broken and smoking from artillery fire. As he turned away, Hartnell grabbed his arm— yelling, ordering—couldn’t he see it didn’t matter? Hissing, he wrenched his arm away viciously, twisting under the taller man’s grip and running as fast as he could towards the smoke.

Claude.

When he reached the trees, it took him a moment to realize what lay before him. There had clearly been an explosion, pieces of wood, chute silk and flesh were everywhere, and amongst the debris he almost missed the twisted body, face-down in the mud, his helmet torn away, revealing a mass of tangled curls, orange in the firelight.

Claude.

Sinking to his knees, he gathered the other man into his arms, keeping his face close to his nose and mouth to feel for any sign of breathing—nothing. He tried to survey the damage, but he could barely see.  Why was it so dark?

“Claude!” he wailed, looking around wildly for Boosh or… no, just Bob now. Anyone. “Medic! Please! _J’ai besoin_... need... medic! PLEASE!”

“Claude… _mon cher, mon amour... s’ il te plait_!” he was sobbing now, crying like he hadn’t since he’d been very young “ _Mon petit, reveille-toi! Reveille_ … Claude! _Mon coeur, ma vie_ …”

His voice broke and his knees, barely anchored in the bloody mud, finally gave way and he slipped, pitching forward into the muck.  Why in God’s name was it so fucking dark?

The rest of the night sped up and slowed down intermittently like a broken reel of film— after years of lying in the mud, rocking Claude’ s broken body like a baby, the rest of the battle took only seconds. Hartnell caught up with him and dragged him away from the blaze. There was yelling, of course. And more screaming. And explosions.  At some point there was a march and another flight.  Eventually, Canada. Parades. More screaming.  Bottle after bottle after bottle.

The future Claude had once whispered to him had died just as he had—suddenly and so far from Danny’s ability to save it. In its place, all he could see was a future full of lies— lies like when someone told him he was lucky to have made it home alive.

 

*****

**June 3rd, 1956** (Another possible outcome)

 

They had gathered for a photo in front of the base before take-off.  In all their gear, and with the low quality of the picture, it was hard to distinguish who was who, but even now, decades later, Danny could tell.  He could pick his company out of the whole battalion by the way they clung together. 

Captain Richards was in the far left corner, tired, leaning a bit towards Lieutenant Carter, his leg was too damaged for him to go back into combat, but he was present for the photograph anyway.  Next to them, Sergeant Pronger was easy to spot, taller than most of the unit by a head, his helmet under his arm.  At his shoulder stood Corporal Hartnell, still heavily bearded even after getting access to shaving supplies.  Carcillo was the one crouched in front of them, his guns at his feet like loyal dogs.  Private Carle was to his right with Bob, the young Russian a little stiff in his new uniform.  Danny and Claude were next to them, towards the center—Claude’s arm slung around his shoulders, his grin a mile wide.

Even Danny’s sons could always spot them in that picture.  Uncle Claude looks too happy to be in a war, they’d say.  He looks like he’s getting married or something.  That made Claude blush the first time Carson said it— scarlet all the way to the roots of his hair— and Danny couldn’t help but grin and wrap an arm around his waist.  It was sort of true, after all.  That day was the start—from the morning they woke up on base in each others arms to the moment they finally made it to safety and looking at each other over a mess table, realized giddily that they had the rest of their lives in front of them.  Claude’s mumbled plans from the previous night becoming not just comforting nonsense, but just that—a plan.

Danny and his sons moved out to the Giroux family farm in 1946, as soon as the property was officially Claude’s.  Out in the countryside, no one really noticed or cared that the two men were living together and raising children.  Sometimes, when they went into town to buy supplies, someone would whisper or give them a sidelong glance, but it didn’t do to gossip about war heroes. 

Once, a gang of young men torched their lower barn.  Danny had just wanted to let it go, not to rise to their provocation, but Claude had been furious.

“This is my land.  It’s been the Giroux’s land for generations, Danny.  Family land! And I can’t let just anyone come here and threaten that!  They need to realize that you are my family— we... all of us are the Giroux family now.  They need to realize that they can’t even begin to touch that.  That I am a man who protects what’s mine.” His voice dropped to a growl as he pushed past Danny and into the night.

Danny still isn’t sure what happened after that, but Claude stumbled into bed hours later, stinking drunk with bruised knuckles and no one bothered the farm again.

Their life was not easy, but it was quiet, usually peaceful, and all either of them could have ever asked for.  Their boys grew up and left home for Toronto and Ottawa—even little Cameron went off to college in the States.  Danny smiled as he straightened the picture on their mantel. 

“Still fussing, _cher_?  Caelan and Susan will be here soon, and I know you don’t want your new daughter-in-law to see you getting misty eyed like an old grandmother.”

As Claude wrapped his arms around him, his smile got even wider.  Even after all these years, it still felt like flying.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Historical notes:

-The non-specific company to which these men belong is part of the very real [First Canadian Parachute Battalion ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1st_Canadian_Parachute_Battalion)who were total badasses.

-In terms of ranks, Richards is company captain, Carter is a lieutenant. Pronger and Hartnell are NCO’s—sergeant and corporal respectively.

-I copied a lot of the development of this from Band of Brothers. If you haven’t watched that, you definitely should.

-Why is Matt Carle (an American), part of the Canadian paratroops? He’s from Alaska, which is up there anyway and it was not uncommon for Americans who wanted to be involved in the war before the US officially declared war to join up with the Canadian or British forces. The Americans in the Canadian military might have had their own unit, similar to the RAF Eagle Squadron, but I couldn’t find much about it and whatever, this is fictional on SO MANY LEVELS.

-Russian pilots during WW2 were woefully under trained. Russia was pretty desperate by this point and they sent a lot of green recruits out who could barely fly. In this story, Bobrovski is one of them.

-Some fun things about the [Canadian Conscription Crisis of 1944](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Conscription_Crisis_of_1944):  
So before Conscription (like a draft), French Canadians who joined up joined Francophone units, like the 22eme Regiment from Quebec, known colloquially as the Van Doos (from Vignt-Deuxieme). But once men were being forced into military service, French Canadians were no longer put into their own units, but put into Anglophone ones. This made a lot of people very angry and fostered a lot of resentment between French and English speakers, both in the service and back in Canada. Or at least that is what wikipedia told me.

  
-Ringway was the RAF base in Great Britain where the 1st Canadian was trained.

-Taking Nazi weapons as keepsakes or souvenirs to send home was not uncommon. Pronger is fond of collecting them. Perhaps he will put them to auction when he returns home.

 

-Here we once again get into the realm of shit I know nothing about. I assume there were little groups of stranded unconnected soldiers wandering around—the fighting in that area was so chaotic and communications at the time were so fragile. As such, I haven’t really found much information on situations like this and I have never been to war or to Belgium, so I am improvising. Correct me if I’m wrong and you know better—I’d love to learn.

-To be totally honest, I am imagining the woods and farm country of Belgium to look a lot like the woods of eastern Pennsylvania where I grew up. One time, I was in France at this castle and the whole countryside looked just like the Poconos. Cool story bro.

-Sulfa powder, an antibiotic, is that whitish yellow stuff you see medics pouring into wounds in war movies. It came in little cardboard packets, which sell for a crap-ton of money to WW2 memorabilia collectors. Yay research!

-LFC: Land Forces Canada. The Canadian Army. They wear berets. Fuck, I wish I was Canadian.

  
-Operation Varsity was the largest single airborne operation to be launched in one day on one location. The American, Canadian and British forces involved, many of which had been recovering and being generally defensive in Holland, trained for the drop in Great Britain. On March 24th at 9pm, they dropped directly into Germany, crossing the Rhine river. It was very complicated and I’m mostly in this for the gay shit, but if you want to read more about it, [start here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Varsity).

-Oh, you know the unit Boucher is re-joining is the mothafucking San Jose Sharks. Yes, I know none of them are American either, but whatever. Imagine Seto and Mitchy driving a fucking tank. Fuck yeah. Can I say fuck a few more times?

-About Bob joining the Canadian Army: at this point I said fuck it to accuracy and just let him join up. I don’t know if people could even do that or what the procedure would be. But imagine him in the cute little beret!

-Music for the melodramatically sad section: [Beirut’s “Gulag Orkestar”](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-UJX0QpkhhU).  In fact, I listened to my Beirut playlist (songs from the albums “Gulag Orkestar”, “Flying Club Cup”, “March of the Zapotec”, “Lon Gisland”, and “Elephant Gun”) while writing most of this fic.  

-Yeah, it was probs way harder than this for a gay couple in the 50’s. I don’t care— after other bit, they needed some happy.

-Isn’t growly, possessive Claude the hottest thing ever? [Look at this punch](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PxALOR_sxE0).


End file.
